


grotesque and amazing

by CurlyAndQuote



Category: Ghost Quartet - Malloy, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe: Time is Weird, Anatole Is A Playa, Canon Divergence, Crack Fic, F/F, F/M, Ippolit Despises Ghost Stories, M/M, Sonya Is Oblivious, The Ultimate Gal Pals, Three (3) Sex Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlyAndQuote/pseuds/CurlyAndQuote
Summary: “So, what songs did everyone like best?” Mary asked.“I liked Four Friends,” muttered Pierre.“I liked that one- Soldier and Rose!” said Marya.“That one made me so sad,” Sonya sighed. “It was just… seeing such a devoted friendship ruined…”Mary nodded. “They were… they were honestly BFF goals… and then…”Ippolit huddled on the stairs. Every so often, he would poke his head out of his vest, and proclaim, “I’m fine.”





	grotesque and amazing

**Author's Note:**

> For the amazing @gelseybellbelseygell on Tumblr. Hapbirth! (It's 12:03 AM as I publish this. Hapbelatedbirth!)

“Come on, we'll be late!” Natasha grabbed Sonya’s hand and pulled her down Second Avenue, in the wake of Marya. The two girls were attracting a fair amount of attention, with their fancy white dresses and the fact that they were speaking Russian.

“The doors don't open for thirty more minutes, we’re fine.” Sonya had never been too big a fan of the opera. She didn’t like the glamour, the high-society people that it attracted. “Who all is going to be there, anyways?”

“Well, not Andrei, he isn’t here,” Natasha began. Sonya sighed. “Yes, I know-”

Natasha cut her off. “All three Kuragins- you remember Helene, of course, and I’ve heard very nice things about the youngest brother- very nice things indeed, he’s apparently very well-endowed- money-wise, I mean!- uh, Pierre, Fyodor, us, of course, I think Boris and Julie were going, and Anna Mikhailovna…” She raised her eyebrows and yanked on Sonya’s arm. “Oh, and Princess Bolkonskaya.”

Sonya sped up her pace until she was walking much faster than the average corgi. Which is saying something, given that corgis can be awfully fast despite their adorable stubby little legs. The thought of Princess Mary motivated her, for reasons she couldn’t understand. (Actually, there were a lot of things about Princess Mary that she didn’t understand, specifically things regarding their friendship. Such as the fact that, when she had asked around her friend group, the only other person who said that they constantly found themselves transfixed by their best friend’s mouth was Anatole. Who she was literally nothing like.) Well, the thought of Princess Mary, and the fact that there was a man standing in the middle of a block holding something that might have been a knife. Oh well. It was New York; what did she expect?

“Here,” Marya said, obviously по-русски. “I think that we turn here. On, uh… what does that street sign say?”

“Second Street,” Natasha translated helpfully. Her grasp on the English language was stronger than Marya’s, which was only comparable to a man drowning in a sea of marmalade grasping for a life preserver that had been coated in petroleum jelly.

“Yes, this is where we turn.”

The three women walked down the block, finally reaching a short brick building that could have been more different from the Moscow Opera House, say, if it were a cottage in England with a thatched roof, but that was still extremely different from the MOH.

Marya gestured grandly. “The Opera!” And the three of them walked up the steps, following the arrow that proclaimed “GHOST QUARTET →.”  
  
***

Helene slapped Ippolit’s hand. “For God’s sake, Ippolit, don’t pick threads from your vest! You’ll unravel it!”

Ippolit muttered something about “not wanting to be here.”

“I know, Lito! The opera bores you tremendously! But didn’t you hear what Vassily said? This is different. This is American opera. Don’t you remember… that one about, ah… oh, you know the one. Where they all talked too fast to keep up.”

Ippolit muttered something about “not throwing away his shot.”

“Yes, that’s the spirit! See, I know you liked that one! Don’t you like this one too?”

Ippolit muttered something about not liking ghosts.

“Oh. Right. That. Uh. Just try and… get through it, all right? I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Helene?” Ippolit said, still picking at his vest.

“What is it?”

“where’s Anatole?” Ippolit asked softly.

“He went to the bathroom to fix his hair.”

“And Dolokhov?”

“He… went… to fix his makeup… in the bathroom… shit.” She pressed her hand to her face, then placed her bag on her chair with a thunk, marking it as her own much as a cat would mark its territory, except with a thousand-ruble purse instead of cat urine. “I’ve got two literal teenagers to chastise.”

***

The doors opened. The mob of people flooded in, filling the seats. The Russian aristocrats stood out prominently in their fancy gowns and evening dress among the other people, mostly in slightly nicer-than-average street clothes, a fair amount with dyed hair, piercings, and pins.

***

Sonya went and sat next to Mary, wondering for the thousandth time why she had a little bit of trouble breathing around Mary. Maybe she was allergic to her perfume. That was probably it. “Hello,” she said.

“Oh, hello!” Mary replied. “Did you see the sign? Apparently part of this takes place in the complete darkness. How unique!”

Sonya nodded. “Yeah.”

“Forgive me if I grab onto you during that part,” Mary said. “I don’t love darkness too much.”

“I love- I’m okay with that,” Sonya said, fumbling for her words despite the relative brightness.

“Sonya!” Mary laughed. Sonya closed her eyes. Shit. Here it came.

“Were you about to say that you loved darkness? That's something I would expect to hear from Andrei! And why are you closing your eyes?”

Sonya peeked one eye open. “Uh… so it's dark?”

Mary poked Sonya, making Sonya's arm erupt in metaphorical fireworks and literal goosebumps. Friendship really was magic.

***

Marya had pulled Pierre aside shortly before the beginning of the show.

“Pierre, I must speak with you.”

“Yes, ma’am?” When Marya talks, you listen.

“You need to make sure nothing happens between Natasha and that Anatole boy.”

“All right,” he had replied, bewildered, and taken his place dutifully on the floor cushions between Anatole and Natasha.

Now he was regretting his decision. As bullets flew over the head of his closest friend on the battlefield, meaningful and longing glances flew over his head. At least they weren't close enough to touch each other. God. What might have happened in complete darkness. He shuddered to think about it.

***

The door opened. Everyone's heads turned as one. And the performers entered the room.

Natasha, Marya, Helene, Ippolit, and Anatole gaped, eyes so wide they would have been shot by a Continental soldier at fifty paces. Sonya and Mary continued to whisper in the back row. Pierre stared into space, figuratively.

Before any of them could ask what the others were so surprised by, a man in a blue plaid shirt waved for silence.

“Hi, everybody!” he began. “I'm Dave Malloy, and this is…” Pierre tuned it out, wishing he weren't here, anywhere but at this opera with these insufferable people. He sat there tracing patterns on the ground, until one word snapped him back to attention.

“-alcohol at this performance,” Dave was saying. Pierre smiled. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all.

***

“...which means please put your cell phones in such a state that they cannot ring, vibrate, or even emit light! And if everyone's ready, I think it's time to start the show!”

Helene looked to her left. Ippolit raised his hand. Helene put her face in her palm.

“Oh… someone has a question!” the man in the blue shirt, Dave, said.

“What is a cell phone?”

Everyone in the audience laughed. Helene felt her eyeballs receding into her skull.

“Ah,” Dave said, clearly offput, “it, uh… that's the spirit! Now, I think we're going to start… now, actually! So this is side one, track one! I Don’t Know.”

He sounded exactly like Pierre, Helene noted.

***

The lights turned out unexpectedly. Helene’s quick reflexes kicked in, and she slapped her hand quickly to Ippolit’s mouth, saving them both from a fate far preferable to death, but still unwanted.

***

Sonya really thought she might pass out. She knew how a dog felt upon hearing a dog whistle, or how glass would feel, if it had nerves and sentience, shortly before shattering from sound waves. Maybe she was about to shatter too, like a glass. That seemed awfully plausible.

She felt a hand grip her arm. Then, a body press up against her. Then, someone moving into her seat. And then she was intertwined with someone else, heat circulating between their bodies, clutching each other, still holding tight when the song ended, but also moving to the music, because the next song was definitely the best one so far.

The lights came on. Natasha stared at Sonya. Pierre stared at Mary. Fedya stared at Sonya. Marya stared at Mary. Helene and Anatole stared at both of them. Ippolit stared off into the middle distance, hands tearing apart the floor cushion.

Sonya and Mary awkwardly untangled from each other and returned to their seats, blushing redder than Sonya’s hair.

Anatole and Natasha conspicuously unhooked hands. Anatole and Fedya inconspicuously unhooked hands. Pierre sighed. He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this.

***

The wealthy Muscovites stood outside the theater, talking amongst themselves.

“So, what songs did everyone like best?” Mary asked.

“I liked Four Friends,” muttered Pierre.

“I liked that one- Soldier and Rose!” said Marya.

“That one made me so sad,” Sonya sighed. “It was just… seeing such a devoted friendship ruined…”

Mary nodded. “They were… they were honestly BFF goals… and then…”

Ippolit huddled on the stairs. Every so often, he would poke his head out of his vest, and proclaim, “I’m fine.”

“No, guys. Here's what's really funny,” said Fedya. “You all remember when the lights turned back on?” Murmurs of assent filled the room. “Well, I don't know- Natasha, you probably saw this too, but- Tolya’s pupils had totally dilated. He looked like his eyes were just a void.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that!” Natasha laughed. “I wonder if that's what he looks like when he-”

Marya raised her eyebrows, a silent gesture, as though asking When he what, Natasha? Finish that sentence, please.

Natasha changed tack at lightning speed. “-when he's possessed by a demon from the spirit world.”

Dolokhov gave her a tiny nod. I know what you were going to say, went unspoken between them, and the answer is absolutely yes.

Natasha smirked.

“Oh, yeah, how about that song, The Photograph?” Sonya asked. Everyone gave some variation on “disturbing but impressive”.

“I thought it was hot,” Sonya said, almost to herself.

“Right, but are we just not going to mention the elephant in the room?” Helene asked. Everybody except Sonya, Mary, and Pierre nodded, making various affirmative noises.

“Sorry, what elephant? Did I miss a plot point?”

Mary nodded in agreement. “Yes, are we missing something?” It was clear “we” referred to Mary and Sonya, who had attempted to create a friendship handshake ten minutes ago and had been holding hands ever since.

“You seriously didn't…”

Ippolit poked his head up. “Dave and Gelsey and Brittain, they all looked like you. Like the three of you.”

“I… don't see it,” said Pierre.

“Me neither,” added Sonya, to which Mary nodded. “I mean, I don't even have the same color hair as Gelsey! And Mary’s, like, a foot taller than Brittain!”

“No- I- we-” Helene sputtered out, almost indignantly. “You look exactly like Gelsey!” she said, emphatically, pointing at Mary. “And you look exactly like Brittain!” Her yelling scared away a pidgeon.

Mary and Sonya looked at each other, then shook their heads identically. “Don't see it,” they said together.

“Wait, Mary, if you look like Gelsey, maybe you could scream like her!”

“Well, we could find out.”

Helene was taken aback by Mary’s entendre before realizing that she literally had no idea she was making one.

“All right!” And apparently Sonya was just as oblivious.

“Come on, Ippolit,” she sighed, coaxing her older brother off the stairs. “Let's go back to the hotel.”

“What about Anatole?”

“I'm sure he went home with, uh. With Natasha… or Fedya.”

Ippolit nodded sagely. “People can do that now, you know. It hasn't stopped him. But maybe it'll start him.”

And with that indecipherable pearl of wisdom, they walked away from the theater.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the best comments are one star that are just people repeating one of my hidden jokes or innuendos and then a keysmash


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